by JF Freedman
“Sometimes.”
“She was mad at your father and she took it out on you?”
“Objection, Your Honor! This is pure speculation!”
“Overruled. You may answer the question,” he told her.
She fidgeted in her seat. “Sometimes,” she whispered. “He’s not really my father,” she corrected, “he’s only my adoptive father.”
“‘Sometimes,’” the judge repeated to the court stenographer, in case she hadn’t heard the answer. “Disregard the rest of it.”
“Are you happier living with your aunt and uncle?” the lawyer probed.
Again, in a small, low voice: “Yes.”
Julie was called as a hostile witness by Eric’s lawyer.
“How would you describe your sister’s current state of mind?” he asked.
“Concerned, of course. Confused.”
“Angry?”
“Yes. Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t be?”
“Angry at her children?”
Slowly, she answered, “Sometimes. They’re teenage girls. It comes with the territory.”
“Irrational anger?” he asked. “Using them as scapegoats?”
More slowly: “Yes, sometimes. I mean, rarely, the frustration level gets so high. Having to live with a man like Eric … who wouldn’t get angry?”
“Do you feel they would be safe with her? Completely safe, all the time?” he added with emphasis.
Julie looked at Kate. Her eyes were wet.
“Not completely safe all the time. Almost all the time, but …” She looks at Kate, seated across the room from her. “Oh, honey. I don’t know what to say, I’m sorry,” crying for real, “the girls, I want them to be safe after all this. Isn’t that what you want, too?”
The judge pounds his gavel.
“You are not to make that sort of outburst again, is that clear?”
“I’m sorry,” Julie whimpered. “I’m so sorry.”
You never had your own kids, Kate thought, staring at her sister, who wouldn’t look at her after that. So you made mine yours—but they’re not. You don’t know what it’s like for real.
You don’t know what you’ve done to me.
The judge announced his decision. The property settlement was cut-and-dried; they split it, it wasn’t much, just the house, which was already up for sale. They’d keep their own cars, their own personal things. The furniture and other tangibles that were in dispute were divvied up, not to either’s satisfaction, but divorce is an unsatisfying process. Eric would pay no alimony, no child support. She didn’t want either; she just wanted to get on with her life.
It came down to her daughters. Custody.
“It is the opinion of this court that the welfare of the minor children will be best served in placing them in temporary custody with Julie and Walter Netter, their aunt and uncle. Children of this age need a stable, secure household in which to live, and at this moment in time Mrs. Blanchard is unable to provide that, given the emotional stress she has been under, which I should emphasize is through no fault of her own. She will, of course, be able to visit with her daughters as much at she wants.”
Kate listened in stony silence.
“We’ll appeal this,” her lawyer promised. “This won’t hold up.”
Fuck you, she thought silently, feeling sorry for herself, wanting to lash out at the world. You fucked this up royally.
“This judgment will be in place for one year starting today,” the judge continued, “at which time Mrs. Blanchard may apply to regain custody.”
He turned and looked directly at Kate.
“I know you’re upset at this,” he said, “but it’s for your welfare as well as theirs. Someday you may thank me.”
I’ll be dead before I ever thank you, she thought.
There was an up side. Eric was granted no visiting rights with the girls whatsoever. They would never have to see him again, or be subjected to his viciousness. And the restraining order prohibiting him from having any contact with her was made permanent.
She was free of him. Free at last.
But what a price she would have to pay.
Eric got the last word in. He detoured past her table on the way out of the courtroom.
“Mother of the year,” he sneered. “Couldn’t even keep her own kids.”
“You’re dead, bitch. For real this time,” he hissed at her when she entered the hearing room to testify against him.
“No, you are,” she rejoined, feeling confident and strong. “Your days of tyrannizing me are over, you petty little shit. And if you don’t get away from me this second I’m going to make them arrest you for violating your restraining order.”
She told her story, clearly and calmly. The people from the shelter testified; so did the doctor from the ER, who was more graphic this time in describing what had been done to her.
Captain Albright was her best witness. He didn’t spare Eric, calling him a disgrace to the department, a rogue cop who had no business wearing a badge. And he praised Kate to the skies—she was an exemplary officer, she always tried her best, he would take a battalion just like her.
The department was looking for an excuse to get rid of Eric. He had crossed the line too many times, they couldn’t afford to carry someone dispensing his brand of justice anymore.
They gave him a fair trial, and then they hung him—they kicked him off the force. He had to surrender his badge and gun before he left the room. And it was made clear to him that any attempt to contact or coerce or frighten her or her family would result in extremely dire consequences.
This time he was the one who was shaking when he left the hearing room for the last time; who averted his face when he passed near her, so she wouldn’t be able to see his stricken look.
The room is silent.
“You took command of your life,” Maxine tells Kate.
“That part,” Kate concedes. “It didn’t get me my kids back, but it was a start.”
“What happened after that?” one of the women asks.
“I quit the force.”
“Why?” Conchita asks, dumbfounded. “You had them by the cojones.”
“I didn’t want to be in that space anymore. It was time to move on. I had to let go of everything, and that was part of it.”
“What about your daughters?” Maxine questions.
“They’re good where they are.” She pauses, collecting her thoughts. “I go up to the Bay Area, once a month at least. Things are getting better. We feel good with each other now. I’ve got a court date in a couple of months. I’m going to petition for custody. If the court grants it, they’ll move down here with me, and we’ll start a new life together.”
“That will be a big step,” Maxine offers. “For all of you.”
Kate nods in agreement. “I’m ready.”
About half of the group is going out for coffee. Kate is going to join them. She feels like she’s a member now.
Mildred Willard waylays her in the parking lot.
“You’re an inspiration to me,” she tells Kate with admiration.
“Thank you.”
“I read that article … Laura’s editorial … in The Grapevine. Were you involved?”
“I was for a while. I’m not anymore.”
“I hope I wasn’t out of line, bringing you together,” Mildred tells her, a bit sheepishly.
“I don’t do anything I don’t want to.” A lie, but right now she wants to believe it. It’s a goal: part of her future.
“I’m sure you were helpful to Laura,” Mildred says. In an intuitive flash, she adds, “she could use a friend like you.”
“Laura can take care of herself,” Kate avows.
Mildred thinks about that for a moment. “Probably. But you have ballast she doesn’t.”
Kate states her case: “I’ve got to get on with my own life.”
11
TWO WHITE CHICKS SITTING AROUND
LIFE GOES ON. WORK goes on. Days go
by.
Kate returns to her office from a working lunch to find a message from Cecil. He’s been busy in his vineyards—they’re picking in a few weeks, that’s why he hasn’t phoned. He’s on his way out the door, running up to Paso Robles for a couple of days, a quick business trip, he’ll call when he returns. Misses her. Hopes she’s well.
She spends the afternoon on paperwork, until a few minutes before seven. A full day; satisfying, no hassles. She prints out various reports and bills, backs up her computer, turns off the lights. Her plan for the evening is to go home, have a light supper, a small glass of wine, then drive up to her own Shangri-la for a late plunge. Pretty soon, until next spring, it’ll be too cold to swim.
The phone rings, as it invariably does when you’re trying to leave the day’s work behind.
“Blanchard Investigations,” she answers.
“Kate Blanchard, please.” A woman’s voice—low, soft-spoken. And vaguely familiar?
“Speaking.”
“Miranda Sparks here, Ms. Blanchard,” the voice announces. “Laura Sparks’s mother,” she adds for identification.
Kate looks at the receiver in her hand as if it’s alive and might bite her.
“The young woman you’ve been working for,” Miranda says, as if further explanation were necessary. “We’ve met before,” she adds. “At the Wine Cask. You were having dinner with my neighbor in the valley, Cecil Shugrue.”
Kate finds her voice. “Yes, I remember,” she answers carefully. “How can I help you?”
“I hope you don’t mind my cold-calling you like this,” Miranda apologizes. “I don’t know the protocol for directly contacting a private detective, I’ve never done it before. Our lawyers deal with detectives on the rare occasions when we use them.”
“I mostly work through attorneys myself,” Kate concurs. “But people call me direct sometimes. That’s why I’m in the Yellow Pages.”
“Is that how my daughter contacted you?” Miranda asks. “By looking you up in the telephone book?”
“I don’t discuss clients with third parties,” Kate says stiffly. “If in fact your daughter is a client of mine. Or was.”
“I’d hardly call someone’s mother a third party,” Miranda responds with equanimity. “Don’t you think that sounds a bit impersonal?”
“What gives you the impression I’m working for your daughter?” Kate asks. Maybe this is a fishing expedition. The mother read Laura’s editorial, she concluded that Laura hired an investigator to do legwork for her, she’s calling every PI office in town until she hits the right one.
“It’s not an impression, Ms. Blanchard,” Miranda states, sounding a bit bewildered. “Laura told me you have been doing some investigating for her on what happened to our former ranch foreman in the county jail.” She pauses—Kate almost thinks she feels a smile over the line. “I didn’t pick your name out of thin air, for goodness sakes. Certainly you don’t think that’s a secret, do you?”
“I like to be sure,” Kate answers, defending her position.
There’s a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Laura had been so concerned—frightened, almost—in making certain that Kate knew she didn’t want her parents to find out she had hired a PI. Now here’s the mother calling and discussing it as if they were exchanging recipes.
“I can understand that,” Miranda says. “Your work is confidential.”
“That’s right.”
“I respect that. But of course, Laura is my daughter. We’re very close. Whatever she’s doing, I know about. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”
You sure could have fooled me, Kate thinks. Laura could have, anyway.
“I’d like to get together with you,” Miranda says. “To discuss what’s happened with your investigation.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Kate counters.
“Why not?”
“Because your daughter hired me,” Kate explains. “Any information I found and passed on to her, if there was any,” she adds, maintaining her discretion, “is between her and me. If she wants to tell you what I’ve told her, that’s her business. But I won’t do it.”
“You’ve got morals.”
“I hope so.”
“That’s admirable. So do I.”
“Then you can understand why I can’t divulge anything to you.”
“Without Laura’s consent,” Miranda adds for her.
“Precisely.”
“Let me ask you this,” Miranda says. “Is it unethical for two members of the same family to hire the same private investigator?”
“That would depend on the circumstances,” Kate answers.
“Well, I might want to engage your services,” Miranda says. “It’s not like I was the subject that Laura wanted investigated, is it?” she adds pointedly.
“No,” Kate admits. “She didn’t hire me to find out anything about you.”
“Then we can get together?”
There’s something weird going on here. She can’t put her finger on it, but there’s a strangeness to all of this. She really wants out, is what she wants. No more late-night meetings with gang lords, no threatening midnight phone calls.
“I suppose so,” Kate answers somewhat reluctantly, not entirely sure why she’s agreeing to this.
That’s not true. She knows precisely why—she wants to find out what’s going on. She’s heard too many stories about this woman. Meeting her on a more intimate basis can’t hurt anything.
Curiosity killed the cat. But she’s not a cat.
“Good. Let’s have dinner tomorrow night, if you’re free. My treat. And I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”
“Okay,” Kate agrees. “I’m free for dinner. Where should I meet you?”
“My ranch, if you don’t mind. It’s not that far from where you are, and the drive at dusk is lovely.”
“Dinner at your ranch?”
“Don’t worry,” Miranda laughs. “We may be plain old ranchers but we eat okay up here. We’ll feed you good.”
Plain old ranchers.
“Is six o’clock convenient?” Miranda asks
“Six is fine.”
“Let me give you directions. It’s not hard to find. Dress casually, you’ll be more comfortable.”
I know where your ranch is, Kate says to herself. I’ve seen you there. With a different guest. And it wasn’t for dinner.
Kate arrives about a quarter of an hour before her appointed time—she had given herself a cushion in case she had trouble finding the place. When she came this way with Cecil he was driving, it was at night, she wasn’t paying attention. The destination was important, not the getting there.
She finds the entrance to the Sparks property without difficulty. A battered tin sign lettered in old-fashioned script: Rancho San Miguel de Torres; hangs from a wooden pole at the juncture to the highway, punctuated with a few rust-edged bullet holes. The road up to the house is almost a mile long. Indifferently paved, every so often a cattle guard bisecting it. Cattle on either side, grazing, blank stares as she drives by.
A few vehicles are parked in front of the small ranch house: a vintage Mercedes, a Ford Escort, and a commercial minivan. Kate parks next to the Mercedes, walks up the porch steps, and knocks on the door.
A bulky Eastern European-looking woman, clad in a white smock and Birkenstock sandals, her girth almost filling the frame, opens the door. “Please to come in,” she says. “Madame is to be finished shortly.”
Kate enters the house. Something fabulous is being cooked in the kitchen, the aromas wafting to her; lamb, maybe. That would be great, she loves lamb.
Miranda Sparks calls out to her from somewhere in the back. “I’m back here. Follow Sonia.”
The large woman leads her down a long hallway into a bedroom. A massage table has been set up at the foot of the bed. Miranda is lying facedown on the table, naked. Soft New Age-style music comes from a portable tape player, scented candles burn, and bottles of ma
ssage oil have been aligned on a small table next to the bed.
Kate can’t help noticing her hostess’s body. It’s incredible, there’s no other way to describe it. It’s been worked on, that’s obvious, pushed and pulled and pumped up and flattened, but nonetheless it’s as close to an idealization of the female form as Kate’s ever seen. She forgot how beautiful Miranda is, and how youthful; she knows Miranda is at least a decade older than her, but the woman’s skin is flawless.
Miranda rolls over and sits up, oblivious to her nakedness. “You’re early,” she says, smiling in greeting.
“I gave myself extra time in case I got lost,” Kate explains, feeling ill at ease. Being greeted by a naked woman with a body like Bo Derek’s isn’t what she’s used to. A woman she’s met once, for two minutes.
“I’m just finishing my massage,” Miranda says, seemingly oblivious to her condition and the effect it has. “Take a look around the place. I won’t be long.” She lies down again, eyes closed, body relaxed.
“Okay,” Kate says, a bit nonplussed. She’s been greeted casually before, but this is really laid back.
She walks back into the living room. The house is sparely decorated: western-style, comfortable. Kate admires the Navajo rugs that cover the dark oak floors, the well-worn burnished leather couches and Mission-style chairs, the western paintings on the walls. Isn’t Reagan’s house somewhere around here? she remembers. Probably furnished in the same style, but not as well.
Within a few minutes Miranda pads into the room, a white terry-cloth robe wrapped around her body, which is glistening like a seal’s from the massage oil that’s covering it.
“I think a good massage is just about better than anything, don’t you?” she states.
“Who doesn’t?” Kate answers. And to think she had expected burgers on the grill and talking a little business. Obviously, simplicity is not this woman’s style.
“Would you like one now?” Miranda asks out of the blue. “You might as well take advantage of Sonia while she’s here. Sonia is the best masseuse in the county. She’ll give you a massage that leaves you feeling like melted butter. My treat,” she offers.
Kate hesitates, not sure how to respond. “Do you have the time?” she asks.
